


Kindred Desire

by LuxKen27



Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-12
Updated: 2010-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 04:23:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxKen27/pseuds/LuxKen27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They led separate lives, meeting every so often to indulge mutual desires. It was enough…until one day when it wasn’t. Now Sango is left to wonder if falling in love is worth the risk of losing it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kindred Desire

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted June 12, 2010. Further author's notes can be found [here](http://luxken27.livejournal.com/145837.html).
> 
> Disclaimer: The _Inuyasha_ concept, story, and characters are copyright Rumiko Takahashi and Viz Media.

~*~

Sango stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in a fluffy, oversized towel. For a moment, she merely stood in the middle of her bathroom, reaching forward to wipe the steam from the mirror, allowing the residual heat of the bath to cloak her still-damp form. She gazed at herself in the swipe of clear glass, a critical eye falling over the line of her shoulder, the curl of her hair, the ashen paleness of her skin. _What does he see in me?_ she wondered, not for the first time that night.

With a sigh, she turned, opening the door and moving into her modest-sized bedroom. Absently, she finished drying herself, drawing the towel up and around her thick curtain of chestnut-colored hair. She crossed the room to her bureau, opening the second drawer and taking stock of her choices. Successful though she was, she tended to live an unpretentious lifestyle, never one to indulge in needless fripperies or ostentatious displays of wealth.

That was something else that had changed since the day she first met _him_. Even now, hearing his voice made her think of satin and lace and silk, and the sumptuous way each fabric felt, sliding against her skin. She’d never known how sensitive she was to tactile sensations until he’d introduced her to the world of European underwear, so – even if nothing else ever came of this casual little affair – she’d always be grateful for that.

The hint of a smile touched the corners of her mouth as she settled on her choice, a set of black French cut lacy panties with matching strapless bra. The only time she ever wore lingerie was when she was meeting him, and even just feeling the soft material against her skin sent waves of warm anticipation shimmering across her body. She pulled on a pair of sheer skin-toned stockings, before settling at her dressing table.

It was funny, she mused, unfurling the towel and running a hand through her hair before reaching for her brush. Her career as a conference and convention organizer kept her incredibly busy. In order to perform her job efficiently and effectively, she’d become something of a jack-of-all-trades. She could convene everything from scientific to academic to business to continuing education conferences, scheduling, organizing, and running each event flawlessly. She didn’t mind fading into the background; keeping each event on schedule usually demanded it. She was well compensated for this tireless, mostly thankless work, but it didn’t leave her much time for a social life.

Which was why a casual fling was such a perfect fit, satisfying the occasional urge quite nicely.

Sango styled her hair with expert care, sweeping it into a simple but elegant updo, with a cascade of soft curls as the crowning touch. She then turned her attention to her face; as much as she loathed the ghostly paleness of her skin, there was naught she could do about it. She softened the color of her cheeks with light rouge, glossed her lips in pale pink, and contrasted it with smoky grey eye shadow. Satisfied with her overall look, she moved on to her closet, pushing aside all of her practical, daily business attire. Her dress collection was pitifully small for a woman her age, but then…she only added to it when she knew she’d be meeting him. It had almost become part of the routine: he’d call her up, invite her out, and she’d go out that very same afternoon and buy a new dress, something spectacular and stunning and completely vainglorious.

She hadn’t been expecting his call, nor the abbreviated prep time before their date. Usually he at least gave her a day or two to wallow in anticipation, but not this time – he wanted to see her immediately, that night…and that made her all the more nervous. It’d been less than a month since their last encounter, time she’d spent in conflict with herself – over him, over _them_ , over what she wanted out of it all. Somehow, somewhere, her heart had shifted, from satisfaction to yearning, from fulfillment to craving – and she had no idea what to do about it.

After a bit of digging, she finally found her dress, pulling a clear garment bag out of her closet and laying it out on her bed. Her outfit of choice this night was a black shirred silk one-shoulder cocktail length wrap dress, one that hugged her in all the right places, in all the right ways. Her mind drifted back as she slipped into the sinful fabric, her eyes falling shut to savor the feeling – and the memory.

Few people in the country wouldn’t recognize Miroku Takanawa, an internationally-renowned research scientist, these days. A year ago, he was the keynote speaker at a grand rounds conference Sango had organized, speaking about his latest breakthroughs on the subject of traditional Japanese medicine. He had just written a book, comprised of several peer-reviewed research articles, on the efficacy of several homeopathic techniques, and was in hot demand on the medical conference circuit – as well as the meat market of grad student lab rats that populated it. For most of the three-day event, he was on one panel or another, speaking about how he had refined his techniques or completed the analysis of his data. In the evenings, he held court in the hotel bar, regaling all of the pretty young girls vying for his attention with stories – mostly professional, but sometimes not.

Sango never really knew why he’d singled her out; perhaps because she was the only eligible young woman in a five kilometer radius who _didn’t_ shower him with attention, he saw her as the ultimate challenge. Whatever the reason, he’d crossed paths with her on the final evening, as everything was wrapping up, complimenting and congratulating her on the successful event. It was exactly never that she’d been approached by the keynote speaker of one of her events, and in spite of her best efforts, she found herself utterly charmed by him. When he asked her to dinner, she readily accepted, flattered by the attentions of such a handsome, intelligent man, the sort who never gave her the time of day outside of work.

Dinner led to drinks, which led to dancing, which led to his place – but she had no regrets. She wasn’t really one for one night stands, but the things that man could do to her in bed…a shiver of anticipation rippled down her spine. Never before had she felt such intense, bordering on _magnetic_ , sexual chemistry with another human being. _Every woman deserves to have amazing sex at least once in her life_ , she rationalized. For someone who spent most of her time in the background, it was all the more precious, something she walked away from with nothing but happy memories.

Luckily for her, however, it wasn’t just a one-time fling.

They lived their lives on opposite coasts of the country. She was based in Tokyo, while his lab was attached to a university in the northern islands. While she booked events in and around the city, he traveled around the country, and oftentimes overseas, promoting his book and hustling grant money to fund his research. Whenever his schedule brought him back into the city, however, he called her up to arrange a date. They had fallen into something over a routine over the last twelve months: they went out, had a great time, had _great_ sex, and then had to say goodbye. It was a welcome diversion from the stress and strain of her job, but every time they parted, she found it harder and harder to let go.

She’d tried to shake herself out of it; after all, they only met every couple of months, and barely spoke to each other in the interim. She actively began to date other men, ones who lived in Tokyo (and sometimes even in her apartment complex!), but none of them lived up the standard Miroku set. He was an enticing, magical combination of good looks, intense charm, and thoughtful intelligence – their dinner conversations were almost as satisfying as anything they did between the sheets. He made her feel worthy of his time – as a woman, as a companion, and as a lover.

So now she was left to wonder – was this still a matter of slaking occasional lust, or was she falling in love with him?

On the one hand, she felt she barely knew him, beyond his ability to hold a conversation or satisfy her in bed. They had only met five or six times over the course of the last year, and even that schedule was irregular; she’d once gone four months without seeing or hearing from him. But their encounters had steadily been growing more frequent, capping off with tonight, barely a month after their last date. His immediacy in wanting (or was that _needing_?) to see her sent an intense wave of longing and lust coursing through her. When they were together, it felt _right_ – physically, emotionally, mentally. She was comfortable in her own skin; she could indulge in the fruits of her labor, in her success as an independent woman with a blossoming career. She bought expensive dresses; they ate at expensive restaurants and staying in the finest hotels in the city – places she often booked for events, but never stayed at for leisure. Maybe that was part of the draw – the novelty, the luxury, the fantasy she indulged during their lavish encounters.

Sango stepped into a pair of black heels before drifting over to her vanity once more. He’d never seen the inside of her modest apartment; likewise, she’d never seen his place, or met his friends, or even really knew for sure that he was single. This twist of emotion, this growing attachment she felt for him was as scary as it was thrilling. Was she ready to take the next step and ask for a commitment? Would it be worth risking the near-certainty of their casual relationship?

What if he said no?

What if he rejected her outright?

What if he laughed in her face at her audacity, in thinking she could somehow be his equal?

Sango’s hands were shaking as she fastened the last of her jewelry, a pair of delicate platinum and silver pearl drop earrings.

_What if he was married?_

She shuddered to think of herself as ‘the other woman,’ pushing the notion from her mind almost as quickly as it appeared. _No_ , she told herself. _I’d know if he was cheating._ She’d seen it often enough at her events; for some reason, otherwise professional colleagues turned conventions into their own personal hookup grounds, a chance for a quick fuck away from spouses and kids. Guilty parties always wore this look of wary apprehension, as if they expected to be caught but relished the thrill of it all anyway.

Miroku had never looked that way, in her experience.

Of course, he’d also never again attended one of her conferences, after their initial meeting.

She gave herself one final onceover in the mirror, before grabbing her evening clutch and heading for the door. No matter what came of it, she had to break the stalemate of their relationship. She was tired of angsting over him, wondering what he was doing or longing to hear his voice. She was tired of measuring every man she met against his standard, only to walk away unsatisfied. Take a swing or take a seat, her father had always advised her. If she wanted this, she had to pursue it, as far as she possibly could.

And oh, how _badly_ she wanted him – for good. 

For herself. 

_For keeps._

Yes, she decided. It was best to go ahead and get it off her chest.

She’d tell him at dinner.

~*~

Sango steeled her spine as she followed the maître d’, who was winding his way between tables to the back of the dimly-lit restaurant. On the cab ride over, she’d given herself a mental pep talk, running through all the possible scenarios and conversations she might have this night, but now that she was here, she felt the nerves creeping into her otherwise placid demeanor. She had hoped following the routine would help her stay calm and in control, but all she felt was anything but.

“Here you are, mademoiselle,” the maître d’ said softly, halting at a corner table. He took a step back, pulling out the chair for her.

Miroku was already there, waiting for her, casually glancing through the tasseled menu. He glanced up when the maître d’ announced her arrival, his indigo eyes taking a leisurely stroll down the length of her and back. She took the moment to return the favor. His hair was a bit on the longish side, pulled back at the nape, curling rakishly over the collar of his crisp white shirt. His suit was a contrasting black, finely cut and perfectly tailored to his frame, complemented by a monochromatic silk tie.

“You look beautiful,” he said, rising from his seat and reaching out to touch her elbow. Her breath hitched in her throat as he pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. Even the barest hint of his scent was enough to spark a tide of lust, sending a wave of heat and longing crashing over her. All at once, the memories came back, fragments of images flashing across her mind.

“Thanks,” she managed to return under a shaky breath. “So do you.”

His smile was enigmatic as he sank into his seat once more. She slid down beside him, nodding thanks to the maître d’ before taking up her own menu.

They were quiet as they perused their choices. Sango could feel her heart pumping furiously in her chest, driven to distraction by the way her body reacted to his presence. If not for civilized manners, she was horrified to realize, she would’ve taken him right then and there. He was sitting in the corner, his back to a plate glass window, reflecting the city lights…how easy it was to imagine herself in his lap, her hips pressing against his as she wrapped her arms around his neck – 

She flushed, never quite so grateful as now to be sitting more or less in the dark.

“So,” she said haltingly, taking a healthy sip of water once they’d placed their orders, “what brings you to Tokyo on such short notice?”

“A last minute engagement,” he replied, pouring her a glass of wine before filling his own. “My agent wants my publisher to release my book in America, so we’re here to meet potential translators.” A wry grin caught the corners of his mouth. “And to see how much of the material needs to be simplified first.”

She watched him carefully, her eyes trained to his hands as he picked up his wine glass to take a sip. He wore no ring, of course, and the skin of his fingers was smooth and even, no hint of an indentation from jewelry hastily removed. The observation brought some semblance of relief, but she found she couldn’t quite concentrate on that.

“How about you?” he asked, his voice warm with interest. “How has the event planning business been lately?”

“Oh, good,” she said. “I’ve conferences booked for the next five weeks straight.” She gestured lightly at their surroundings. “One of them is even here.”

“Well, how’s that for coincidences?” he mused, taking her hand in his and giving it a soft squeeze. A prickle of electric heat scoured her hand, rising up the length of her arm with an accompanying shiver of pleasure.

“Hmm?” Her brain was rapidly deteriorating into a pile of mush as he raised her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against the backs of her fingers. His eyes slid shut as he completed the caress. “Are – are you attending that week?”

“I hope to be in town, yes,” he responded, his gaze finding hers once more as he laced his fingers through hers.

A swell of shock and need settled in her abdomen at that. It had been over a year since the conference that had brought them together in the first place; the idea of spending at least three days in a row with him sent her senses into overdrive. _I’d never get anything done_ , she thought to herself, swallowing hard. _If I was around him all damn day, all I’d do was dream about him._

He quirked a brow as he studied her reaction. “I can’t decide if that look means you’d be happy to see me, or not,” he teased lightly. 

She flushed again. “Um – ”

“That’s okay,” he continued, drawing himself closer to her across the table. “I’d be more than satisfied with the prospect of seeing you…”

She tilted her head upward, breathlessly accepting his kiss, mildly surprised yet totally pleased with the intensity of the caress. His lips were firm against hers, his grip on her hand solid and strong, and his meaning well clear when his tongue slipped into her mouth.

He pulled away mere moments before their entrees arrived, his eyes slightly hooded as his gaze found hers once more. Her entire body felt ablaze with longing and desire, her pulse pounding in her throat – her chest – between her legs. Her words lodged in her throat as hunger overtook her addled brain. Her food smelled absolutely divine, yes, but instinctively she knew, nothing would taste as good as him.

They ate in relative silence, listening to the low hum of conversation and tinkling of silverware around them. Tensions eased a bit when he asked about her upcoming events; she prattled on absently in response before deflecting the question, drawing him into long, engaging explanations of his latest projects at the lab. She listened with half an ear, all the while despairing inwardly that she couldn’t find the courage to address the issue that currently dominated her mind.

It was always like this when she was with him – he claimed the entirety of her attention, in one way or another. He knew exactly how to draw her in, how to make her feel heard when she was talking, or important when he was. Every look or sly glance or casual caress of her hand, her cheek, her shoulder distracted her further. He knew exactly how much she enjoyed various types of foreplay and he actively engaged in them all. It never failed to blow her mind how stimulating and engaging and intelligent their conversations were – and how much she was ready to fuck him the second it was over.

Even now, as she tried to concentrate on his words – he was relating how he’d visited a remote shrine in the mountains, his descriptions of the scenery and the journey lush and vivid – all she could think about was sex. In her mind’s eye, she saw them, cast in shadow, hand to hand – chest to chest – hip to hip – mouth to mouth. He knew exactly how to touch her, how to kiss her, how to make her scream and moan and writhe with pleasure.

As much as these thoughts and images and fragments of memories turned her on, they also simultaneously rankled against her nerves. Here she was, a strong, independent, free-thinking woman, who ran her own business with great success – but all of that melted away when she was in his presence. She resented the hold he had over her, even as she reveled in it. After nearly a year of passionate encounters with him, some small part of her still felt needy and insecure, wondering why a man as beautiful, charming, and thoughtful as him found her the least bit interesting and worthy of his time.

She could feel the gaze of every other woman in the restaurant drifting his way, especially as he grew more animated and cheerful in his demeanor – but he only had eyes for her, his attention solely focused on her and her reactions. Even so, she felt her resolve to push for some stronger bond between them melting away under the thrush of immediate need, of lust that demanded satisfaction before sanity could resolve.

He seemed to sense this inner shift, away from doubt and resolution, into need and blind craving. He ordered dessert and poured her another glass of wine, scooting his chair closer to hers when the plate arrived, a generous serving of chocolate cake with two forks. He took a bite and then offered one to her, draping his arm across the back of her chair as he cajoled her into accepting it. She did, the rich, dark chocolate icing dissolving in her mouth, and she pulled him close for a kiss. One of her hands curled into the lapel of his suit jacket while the other raked through his hair; she parted her lips, inviting his tongue to explore, and he dropped the fork, wrapping his arm around her waist and tugging her close.

A wave of pure pleasure enveloped her as she sank into his warmth, her tongue laving with his as the kiss deepened. When finally they parted, she was gasping for air, her breath short and sharp in her chest as she clung to him, caught halfway between her seat and his lap.

“Where are you saying?” she breathed. She hoped it wasn’t far – she wasn’t sure she could stand at the moment, much less walk.

“Right here,” he replied, his tone deep and husky. His chest rose and fell in rhythm with hers.

“ _Here_?” she echoed incredulously. “The Peninsula?” It was only the most luxurious hotel in the city, nestled square in the middle of the business district, a stone’s throw from the Imperial Palace.

“Twenty-third floor, with a view of the city,” he replied. “Think you can make it that far?”

“Only if you carry me,” she said with a smile. It was an exaggeration, but not by much.

He chuckled, the sound resonating through him and into her, before pulling her to her feet. In the last vestiges of her civilized mind, she found her heretofore lost resolve once more, deciding the moment of truth should come in the moment of triumph, or shortly thereafter.

Yes, she decided. She’d tell him in bed.

~*~

“Red or white?” Miroku called from the foyer, his voice travelling across the room to where Sango stood.

She didn’t immediately respond, though she already knew her answer. “Red,” she finally said, folding her arms lightly over her chest, her eyes trained to the cityscape and its magical, almost ethereal lights. It was another part of their routine – arriving back at his room, leaving their shoes by the door to the bath, having a nightcap before retiring to bed…

Sango shivered lightly, her heart picking up speed as she stared out the plate glass window, one that opulently stretched from floor to ceiling. Their lustful ardor had cooled somewhat, as they had to share the elevator for the ride up to the twenty-third floor, and now she found herself second-guessing her decision to put off bringing up the state of their relationship. She was torn between not wanting to rock the status quo, and not wanting this to be their last fling, marred forever by worry and doubt.

“Here you are,” Miroku said, coming to a soft halt beside her and handing her a glass. He had taken the time to make himself more comfortable, divesting himself of his jacket and tie and loosening the collar of his shirt. He noticed the serious cast of her expression, taking the opportunity to touch her shoulder as he lifted his glass to his lips. “Penny for your thoughts.”

A jolt of fiery anticipation shot down her side, searing a heated path all the way to her feet. Could she really risk losing this? Plenty of other men had touched her in much the same way, but none had ever elicited such a rapid and wicked response. When had this become _not_ enough for her? When had she decided she _wanted_ the painful experience of falling in love, with all of its assorted ebbs and flows of emotion?

“This view is beautiful,” she finally said, choking back her apprehension with a healthy sip of wine. 

“Yes, it is,” he concurred softly, allowing his hand to slide across the back of her shoulders. “I think we should take a moment to enjoy it.” He lowered his glass to sit on the corner of the low sill before reaching for hers and placing it nearby. His hands came to rest on her shoulders, his thumbs pressing gently into the base of her neck, and slowly, his fingers working into a massaging rhythm. 

Immediately she felt the tension stored there dissolve, her muscles becoming smooth and pliant under his experienced touch. Her eyes fell shut and she leaned into him, a deep sigh escaping from her lips. Her resolve and uncertainty was quickly fading under the haze of desire. “Miroku,” she breathed.

“Hmm?” he replied, pressing a feathery kiss to her neck, just below her hair.

She swallowed hard, fighting her immediate instinct, to fall back into him. “We should – ” _We should talk, she wanted to say, only to realize that was precisely the last thing she wanted to do._

“Speed up?” he guessed, his mouth next to her ear. “Slow down? Your wish is my command.”

Before she could respond, his lips found their target, tracing a leisurely trail down the column of her throat and across her bare shoulder. One hand trailed down and across, coming to rest at her waist, while the other teased with the fabric of her dress, caressing the fine shirred silk into her skin, eliciting a sharp gasp of surprise and pleasure.

He continued to bathe her exposed skin with kisses, sometimes light, sometimes fiery, nipping lightly with this teeth, while his hands explored familiar territory, each caress urging the whole of her body closer to his. The hand at her shoulder circled under and around, cupping her right breast, tweaking her nipple through her dress, while the other slid across her waist with smooth strokes, following the line of her hip, his fingers dipping and cupping her inner thigh.

Her resistance crumbling, she sank into the heat quickly generating between them, throwing her head back, redirecting his kisses to her neck, her throat, her brow, her hair. She clasped her hands around his, holding them still and firm at her breast, at her thigh. Sensations raced through her, over her: of fire, of heat, of passion, of desire and need and lust and want. She loved the way he reacted to _her_ reactions, his breath heavy in his chest, his skin flushed where she touched him, where he held her. Her body tingled, sensitive to each contrasting stroke – of hands, of lips, of cotton and silk and lace – against her skin. 

She moved the hand at her thigh, pressing his fingers into the soft mound at the apex of her legs. He groaned in response, the nails of his other hand digging in where he held her as he stumbled backwards. “You’re so wet,” he breathed, his tone harsh with surprise. He captured her around the waist, pulling her into his lap as he landed on the side of the bed. He parted her legs as much as the dress would allow, dipping his fingers in a full, experimental stroke, as if he couldn’t quite believe how excited she already was.

“Mmm,” she replied, her eyes opening into slits as she adjusted her position on his lap, hooking her legs over the outside of his. She pressed a kiss to his jaw, her tongue flicking out to capture his earlobe, and he stroked her again, rubbing the silk of the dress and the lace of her panties against her vulva. With his free hand he lifted the shirred fabric, gathering it in bunches until he found the hem, using the excess material in his manual ministrations before urging her hips up far enough to lift the dress to her waist. Both hands slid underneath then, sliding along the path of her pelvis, his fingers splaying out over her thighs, rubbing and teasing and caressing her bare skin. She ground her hips into his, pressing back against him, trying to maneuver his hands where she wanted them, but he resisted, taunting her for precious long moments. Finally, he relented, the fingers of one hand smoothing over her core, alternating languid strokes with soft flicks of his nails.

The texture of the lace alone against her skin was one she relished in particular, so he took his time, measuring success in the way she leaned back and opened her legs further to his touch. With his free hand he roamed back up to her waist, following the line of her panties there, sometimes bringing down the billowing silk of her dress for a contrasting texture. Eventually, those fingers slipped between the lace of her underwear and her skin, following the heated trail to her core; he was immediately able to slide a finger inside her with ease, alternating the gentle thrusts with the strokes of his other hand, still pressing her panties against the smooth surrounding skin.

He dipped another finger into her warmth, his thumb reaching back to find and rub her clit. She sank down, and back, amazed at his ability to stay upright but thankful nonetheless for his exquisite control, even as she pressed her hips insistently against his. The hand over her panties slipped away, coming to rest at her thigh, propping her legs open over his as the fingers insider her picked up speed, pushing her closer and closer to her climax. Her hips moved against his, rising to meet the rhythm of his strokes, the muscles across her abdomen becoming achingly, unbearably tight – until she peaked, pleasure cascading over her in waves, her muscles spasming over his still-moving fingers. She felt, more than heard, the groan that escaped him at her release, and she felt her body go boneless against him as she slid into bliss.

When she came back to her senses, she realized she was leaning heavily against him, her back to his chest, her head lolling in the crook of his shoulder. His hands were splayed across her legs, his fingers moving down the line of her thighs in smooth, languid strokes. For all the sensations still rocking through her, she found herself focusing on his expression – the slight curve of his mouth, the way he held his eyes closed, as if enjoying her orgasm vicariously – the way he seemed so satisfied at his ability to pleasure her by mere touch alone.

Such a reaction from any other lover would’ve left her feeling affronted or weak…but not from him. He knew exactly where and when and how to touch her, to awaken secret kinks she never knew she had until she met him. She enjoyed the idea that he took just as much pleasure from her satisfaction as from his own, which is why she never felt vulnerable in the midst of or in the immediate afterglow.

It was only after, _long_ after, when her brain had time to catch up with her body, that the doubts crept in. In the moment – in the fantasy – she reveled in him and every aspect of their magnetism. 

With languorous ease, she lifted herself up, turning quickly before settling again, this time straddling him. She lifted the skirt of her dress, pressing her bare thighs against his still-clothed legs, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, running her fingers through his hair.

“How can you make me feel this way?” she whispered, more to herself than him, drawing her body close to his, raking her nails against his scalp.

“Because of the way you make _me_ feel,” he replied, punctuating his words with soft kisses against her throat, her chest, her breasts.

She inhaled sharply, surprised, fisting handfuls of his hair as her gaze locked with this man whose mere presence was enough to fill her with salacious thoughts and conflicting feelings. He made her feel so _good_ , and _wanted_ , and _alluring_ that she could almost forget the emptiness that pervaded in his absence. Even now, sitting astride him, she wondered about the secrets lurking behind his indigo eyes. She wondered if he ever felt the same way about her in these moments together – or if he ever missed her in their moments apart.

“And how’s that?” she finally managed. _Powerful? Invincible? Resilient? Conceited? Satisfied?_

_…loved?_

His smile turned wicked as he took her hand, guiding it to the bulge between them.

“You have to ask?” he inquired, his voice gravelly with desire.

She swallowed hard, the words leaping from her heart suddenly lodging in her throat. Could this be all he wanted from her? Did she have any right to expect otherwise? This is what they were good at – fuck, this is what they _met for_ , when it came right down to it. Was she crazy for thinking there was more than sexual chemistry between them?

Or was she crazy for convincing herself she felt otherwise?

“Sango? Everything okay?” She felt his hands slide down from her waist to cup her bottom.

Her eyes slid shut as she cracked a smile, pushing her melancholy thoughts from her mind. “Of course,” she replied, fondling him through his clothing. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

His hips jerked in response to her caress, and she felt him nudging her forward, closer to home. She resisted, momentarily, instead drawing his attention to his mouth as she pressed her lips to his. Usually they saved the kissing for before – or after – but now, in this moment, she needed some reassurance, however tiny, that this wasn’t the beginning of the end.

He was arrested by her sudden change in tactics, his hands sliding up the planes of her back to bring her closer, his fingers digging into her shoulders, pressing the delicate shirred silk into her heated skin. One kiss melted into the next, then another, and another, desire and need building between them as a paradoxical relaxation washed over them. She enjoyed this feeling of fleeting power as he yielded to her, biding his time until he made his move, but she resisted when he did, turning the tables and pressing him down on the mattress. His breath was heavy in his chest as her hips sank against his, her fingers making short work of his shirt buttons. His hands clasped the backs of her thighs, holding her in place, and she shuddered with absolute, divine delight to feel the weight of him pressed between her legs.

“Sango,” he whispered hoarsely, “release me.”

She hesitated, but for a moment, until he rolled his hips insistently against hers, and she realized she held all the power. She could acquiesce, or she could deny – she could continue, or she could stop. Her fate was in her own hands, and what she wanted – 

– what she _needed_ – 

Her hands found his waist, her fingers deftly opening his belt, his trousers. He groaned beneath her as she grabbed hold of him, guiding him to her entrance, and she fell forward as their hips met, her knees splayed parallel to his waist. God, but she _loved_ the way he felt inside her, like he completed her, and she held still for a long moment, savoring the sensation.

“Sango,” he moaned, heaving deeply, “don’t stop. _Please_.”

She needed no further encouragement. Losing herself to her own needs and wants and desires, she pressed forward, beyond, arching her back as she sat up, clinging to the opened lapels of his shirt as her body moved against his. She relished this feeling of exquisite control, pushing him to his limit with such sweet torture, lowering her head as she lifted her hips, pressing light kisses against the exposed skin of his throat, his chest. She felt him stiffen as he edged closer and closer to oblivion, and she found herself overwhelmed with a sense of triumph as she pressed forward aggressively, pushing him over the cliff. He exploded inside of her, filling her with heat and warmth and satisfaction.

Her heart was pumping furiously in her chest when she felt his hands sliding down her arms, meeting her clenched fists on his chest. “Sango, look at me,” he managed between airy breaths. “Look at what you do to me.”

She didn’t realize her eyes were closed until she opened them, directing her gaze down at him, feeling her abdomen constrict as the waves of his orgasm continued to resonate through her. He was absolutely beautiful, lying with abandon beneath her, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, his shirt loosed and revealing the solid pack of muscle that made up his chest, his torso. He was smiling lightly, his hands moving to her waist to keep the shallow rhythm of her hips going against his.

“Only you, Sango,” he was saying, his voice thin with awe, “only you can do this to me – only you can make me feel this way.”

It was enough – a simple turn of phrase, the ultimate compliment from a lover – it was enough to bring her collapsing forward, her lips finding his as another wave of pleasure rocked through her. She curled herself around him, wanting the moment to last forever, never feeling closer to him than she did in that moment. It was love, she thought, her heart shattering and reforming and brimming overboard, and she would do anything to keep it – even risk losing it. 

Yes, she decided. She’d tell him tomorrow…

~*~

Sango drifted into consciousness sometime the next morning. Sunlight streamed into the room, filtered only slightly through sheer curtains, and she furrowed a little deeper into the mattress, reveling in the warmth of her cocoon of sheets. Only when she shifted toward the center did she realize she was alone in the massive bed. That woke her with a start, her hazy mind suddenly clearing when she realized –

– _she hadn’t told him, and now it was too late_.

She bolted upright, her head bursting with sudden pain as her blood rushed to her brain. “Ow,” she moaned, covering her face with her hands.

“You’re awake,” commented a voice, its tone caught halfway between surprise and concern.

She hazarded a glance up, the empty feeling of misery dissolving away as she caught sight of Miroku, standing across the room near the window. One of the hotel bathrobes was belted loosely around his waist and he held a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, though from the looks of _him_ , he hadn’t yet taken a sip. He hadn’t been awake long, it appeared – his hair was tousled, his face covered in a morning’s worth of stubble, and his expression was marred with a troubled cast. Sango blinked her eyes rapidly, wondering if her blurry vision was playing tricks on her, but even as it cleared, his appearance stayed the same.

“Sango,” he said, allowing her name to roll off his tongue. “Are you – okay?”

Her stomach churned at the hesitation in his voice. “Yes,” she replied tentatively. “Are you?”

“No,” he sighed, turning away from her, locking his gaze on the sun, rising just over the horizon.

Sango watched him carefully, trepidation creeping over her now fully-roused senses. She didn’t like the way he had turned his back on her, crossing his arms so tightly across his chest, as if holding something very painful inside. She’d never seen him look like this – so uncertain and out of sorts – and it troubled her deeply. She wondered if he had somehow divined her feelings last night – this desire for more than a casual fuck from him – and this was his way of responding.

She could almost feel her heart breaking.

“I lied to you, Sango,” he finally said, his voice firmly controlled and monotone. “I’m not here for a business meeting.”

She inhaled sharply, her heart beating painfully in her chest. She sank back into the pillows on the bed, drawing her knees forward, the heaviness of impending tears weighing heavily behind her eyes.

Miroku took a deep sip from his coffee before turning back to face her. “I’m here – ” he tried, before swallowing hard. “I’m here because I wanted to see you – no, I _needed_ to see you.”

Cautiously, she lifted her gaze to his. “One last time?” she guessed, unable to discern any other meaning from the heaviness in his tone.

“What?” he replied, furrowing his brow. “No! No….”

She wrapped her arms around her knees, not quite believing this hasty denial. “Then why?”

He was silent for a moment, warring emotions racing across his face. “Can’t you see? Didn’t I show you, last night…?”

“I want you!” he finally burst out. “I can’t stop thinking about you, every second we’re apart!”

She could only stare at him in utter, profound, ecstatic disbelief. “R-really?!” she choked out.

“Oh, God, Sango,” he said, crossing the room in two strides, abandoning his coffee where it fell on the way. “It’s more than that. I _need_ you.” He sank into the mattress beside her, prying her arms away from her knees and pulling her to his chest. “I need you like most men need air.”

Surprise and need and love rolled through her as she attempted to process this information. He was trembling as he held her, his grip warm and firm and true, his breath shaky as it rushed past her ear.

“Anytime we’re apart, all I can think about is you,” he was saying. “It kept getting harder and harder to say goodbye, to carry on as if this wasn’t a big deal and life was more important, but dammit, Sango – _it’s not_. I don’t know why or how but one day I woke up and realized I was in love with you, and I never wanted to be away from you again. You’re – you’re _everything_ I’ve ever wanted in a woman: you’re strong, and savvy, and beautiful, and smart, and enticing as hell any hour of the day or night.” He paused for a moment, loosening his grip on her so that he might look in her eyes. “You’re the type of woman a man wants in his room when he’s sick – and in his bed when he’s not.”

Sango didn’t know how to respond, so she kissed him instead, hoping to convey with actions what she could not with words. She fell back into the pillows, pulling him down on top of her, parting her legs and greedily accepting his weight, the way his pelvis cradled so perfectly into hers. He loosened the ties of the robe, parting the fabric and pushing it out of the way, the tip of his erection stirring against her thigh.

“Every day, I dream of this,” he whispered against her mouth, his hands drifting down to find and cup on her bottom. “Every morning I wake up and realize you’re not under me, I wish that you were.”

She moaned under the desperation of his caress, thrusting her hips towards his, aching to have him fill the void that threatened to split her in two. There was so much she wanted to say – _I love you, too – I never want to leave you again – I want you so bad I ache when you’re gone_ – but the words wouldn’t form. Most of all, she was overwhelmed with relief, and love, and confidence, because she could give him what he wanted, if only he’d let her.

Finally, mercifully, he penetrated her, rolling her hips high to accommodate his thrusts – deep, hard, tinged with the urgency of desperation. She wrapped her body around his, tangling her limbs in the soft cotton robe, her hips rising to match his every stroke. He gasped hard when he came, crossing his arms across her back and holding her tightly, so tightly she could feel the muscles across his abdomen constrict under the force of his orgasm. She returned the embrace, her hands closing into fists around the material of the bathrobe as she rode out the waves of his release.

“You complete me,” he said, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, her neck. “Like no other woman ever could, and no other woman ever will.”

Finally, Sango found her voice. “I was so afraid,” she whispered. “I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you for the last day – that I feel the same way.”

His eyes were soft as he gazed at her. “Why were you afraid?”

“For the same reasons you were,” she replied, her expression somber. “I didn’t want you to say no. I didn’t want to say ‘I love you,’ only to hear silence in return.”

He flushed as he averted his eyes, concentrating on gently disengaging his body from hers. She’d never seen him so vulnerable before, not even in the hottest moment of heated passion. This willingness to allow her to see past the mask of self assurance he always wore heartened her, bolstering her confidence even further.

“I think I love you,” she said, brushing her fingers through his hair.

“Then come away with me,” he proposed, “and let me prove how much I love you and want you and need you until you’re sure.”

“Come away with you?” she repeated.

“Come _live_ with me,” he clarified, adjusting his embrace, drawing her into the comfort of his body. “I have a house on the northern shore, and apartments in some of the finest cities abroad – ”

“No,” she interrupted, shaking her head. “I can’t.”

He mouth opened and closed a few times before he was able to speak. “Why?”

“My life is here,” she replied simply. “My apartment is here. My family is here. My business – _is here_.”

Miroku sat up then, letting her go completely and averting his gaze, arranging his robe around himself once more. Sensing that she had unintentionally hurt him, Sango pushed herself up beside him, reaching out to touch his cheek.

“I don’t know you,” she said, “but I _want_ to know you – better than I do, beyond all of this.” Her arm snaked around his shoulders. “I _want_ to be your girlfriend, or your lover, or however you choose to define it – but I’m not ready to give up my life just yet.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

 _Do you?_ she wondered. It had all been such a mess, this confession of feelings and worries and doubts. Could they withstand this disruption to the routine, or was this somehow all a dream?

“I want to see you,” he said, turning to face her. “Whatever it takes.”

She nodded slowly, threading her fingers through his hair, brushing it back from his brow. “Exclusively?”

His eyes hooded, his gaze falling to her mouth. “You’re the only woman for me.”

Her smile was wry, cajoling. “I’m free whenever you are,” she said. “All you have to do is call. Or email. Or text. Even when you’re not just in it for the sex.”

He feigned great shock at her cynicism. “Sango, I’m surprised at you!” he said with exaggerated insult. “Have you so little faith in me and my motives?”

She slapped him playfully, before embracing him in kind. “A _real_ relationship is a lot of work,” she reminded him gently. “Especially long distance.”

“It won’t always be that way,” he vowed, “even if it has to be for now.” He pressed a kiss to her lips – light, sweet, and full of giddy promise.

“And, you, my dear, will _always_ be worth the effort.”


End file.
